She stirs her cappuccino slowly, gaze fixed on the waitress.

You’re still smiling from the compliment — the girl had lit up when she recognized you. Asked for a quick photo, said she was a fan of your work, and maybe of your face too.

Rosé didn’t say anything.

But now, curled up in her oversized cream sweater, she’s giving side-eyes sharp enough to slice croissants.

You nudge her foot under the table. “She was just being nice.”

Rosé doesn’t look at you. “Mhm.”

You lean closer, grin growing. “You’re not jealous of a waitress in Paris, are you?”

“She was too nice,” she mutters, biting her sleeve.

“She was cute,” you tease.

Rosé finally turns to you, deadpan. “You think I didn’t notice how she tucked her hair behind her ear when she smiled at you? You have seen K-dramas. You know what that means.”

You snort.

“She literally asked me if you were my girlfriend,” you add, lips twitching now. “I said yes.”

“She didn’t need a real answer.” Rosé sips her drink. “She got the message.”